Saturday, July 31, 2004


I'm going to be doing the opening 20 minute set at the Bowery Poetry Club on Monday, August 2nd at 10 pm. The show costs $3. It's an open mic from 10:30 until it ends. (2 am?) There is a drinking contest, a writing contest, everyone gets 6 unadulterated minutes to spout shit, read something, do a dance, or drink a hot beverage in silence, if that is how you wish to spend it. And I am going to be the opening act of that show!

For your viewing pleasure, I have prepared a very special 20 minute opening act with a very verbose title, and that title is:

"Hi. I'm Jessica Delfino. Who are you? So, do you live in the neighborhood? Cool!"
written by Jessica Delfino
with special guests
Liz Maher
Chelsea Peretti
Captain Hilarious
and others, check one two

You will see a sketch, a short film (perhaps), hear dirty folk rock (new song!) hear jokes (old and new) and see me do a little motivational speaking. (Bet you didn't know I could motivationally speak.)

So, lovely friends and fine enemies, let us forget our troubles and bond together and rally 'round the arts, driven centrifically by the power of laughter and joy.


Thursday, July 29, 2004


I guess I'm one of those people who needs a lot of attention. I don't ever remember being so needy as a child, but now in my older years, I get very antsy if I don't get enough attention. If I'm alone all day, at the end of the day, I'll have a conversation with my roommate, even!

I am always wanting to hang out with friends or trying to get my boyfriend to hug or kiss me (which he is very strange about - sometimes he likes to maul me in public so roughly that strangers check in on me to make sure everything is okay, and other times he wouldn't touch me for all the snacks in the world. And I do mean chips and salsa and stuff.)

A friend suggested to me that I plant a garden, I guess they thought in my living room would be a good place, because where the hell am I supposed to plant a garden in NYC? Don't you need spending money and free time and a permit to do that? I'm not planting a god damn garden so that I can experience joy in my life. Plants don't like me. They always die when I try to make them live, and when I try to make them grow, they don't grow. One time, I grew a pot plant and a deer ate it. That's what happens when I touch other stuff that God made. It's his way of saying to me, "Don't touch my shit!"


LAST NIGHT Kurt Metzger called me. Turns out he went to the Montreal Comedy Festival to do "pitching it" and he did really well. A few magazines wrote nice things about him, like Hollywood Reporter and Backstage. I didn't tell him that Backstage wrote nice things about me close to a year ago. It's not nice to on purpose be a bitch to old flings who broke your heart. (But sometimes it's rejuvenating.)

Wednesday, July 28, 2004


Bilge Baron, Mr. Brooke Shields, Bilge Byron and the ghost drummer will be taking the stage this Thursday in an underground recording studio space, a cozy little hole at 180 Orchard St. just south of Houston. The show is $2 suggested donation and features new fear-metal band, Haunted Pussy.

Interesting point about Haunted Pussy - someone supposedly commented of HP that they were like "Black Sabbath meets Led Zeppelin meets Heart." Well, Haunted Pussy, it turns out, with a little bit of research, is the name of a movie, as was Black Sabbath, and Led Zeppelin's song, "Stairway to Heaven." The band insists it was an accident. Says Bilge Byron, "Bilge and I made up the name in a bathroom." Cool.

I don't know about y'all, but I always loved Led Zeppelin and Heart the most. I liked Black Sabbath, too, and Jethro Tull and Joni Mitchell and a lot of other classic rock that makes me seem even more like the hippy that I swear I'm not, but, I'm not, I swear. But, I really just liked Led Zeppelin and Heart. Both bands songs featured haunting and spooky melodies and lyrics and a little bit of mysterious sexuality that made you totally want to take lsd and fuck your high school science teacher. But, who hasn't had thoughts like that? I love science. And the men who teach it. And Led Zeppelin. And Heart.

They're playing on Thursday, July 29th at 7 pm, doing 20 minute sets every half hour. The show is $2 suggested donation and I think if you like scary with your metal, you'll dig Haunted Pussy. (More info on Haunted Pussy at:)

Please copy and paste, my link thingy isn't working right now for some reason.

Monday, July 26, 2004


I woke up at 6:30 am when the alcohol wore off. It always happens that way. I'm having a dream that I'm rich or pretty and then, poof! It's 6:30 am and the alcohol's wearing off, jarring me up into a sitting position in bed, leaving me recollecting just vague, shadowy details of the night before, a mental list already forming of people to call and apologize to. I usually can't fall back to sleep and end up either enlisting the help of marijuana or reading until it feels like I have to either get up or start crying. But today was special. I fell back to sleep after only a half hour of trying.  

Finally, I got out of bed at around 1:34 pm in the morning. It felt good to sleep in, even if it was on account of the fact that I got really drunk last night ingesting Bud tall boy after Bud tall boy until I had fantasies of giving myself a home-made hot-needle tattoo on my neck. That's when I know I've had enough. (The occasion? Faceboy had his open-mic on Christopher's roof top last night, as it's former long-time home, Collective Unconscious on Ludlow St. is now officially closed. They are moving to a new space in Tribeca which will open very soon.) I brushed my teeth and dressed in yesterday's clothing, as I had to meet with the producers of the show I'm doing tomorrow night at Arlene's Grocery at 2 pm and didn't have time to look fancy. (Last night's ensemble was thrown on at 7:30 pm, not giving it enough time to get officially dirty, and if it was good enough for the open mic, it was good enough for Arlene's Grocery.) I rode my bike over to the library and signed myself up for 4 pm, figuring that'd be enough time to finish up with the Arlene's Grocery folks. As I rode up to Arlene's at 2:05, cellphone to ear, I heard the message saying we wouldn't be meeting 'til 3. Wish I'd listened to my messages earlier.

I hopped back onto my bike and rode over to the CD reproduction place I go to and picked up my new spool of Dirty Folk Rock CDs. There was a young girl of about 13 sitting in the place with her mother and I briefly considered giving her one of my CDs to listen to. (She looked very uptight and I thought it was because she was the only one in her group of friends who hadn't started her period yet.) I winked at her, decided to keep my CD and headed on bike to Key Foods, my neighborhood grocery store, where I purchased a can of Fresca, a 1/4 pound of three potato salad, a roll, a container of hummus (tomato flavored) and a small container of mesclin salad. (Who said you can't eat healthy on a budget? Did anyone say that ever?)

I rode back over to Arlene's, (at this point it was almost 3) and met up with the guys. Joe booked me on this show a month or so ago. His band, Big Daddy Addy is putting together a variety show that they are pitching to Comedy Central. Eddie Brill and Vic Henley, both real deal working stand-up comics are on the show, along with the band, myself and I think a few other performers. (It's tomorrow night, Tue July 27th, at 8 at Arlene's Grocery, Stanton and Ludlow, $7.) We talked for a bit and then Eddie Brill called and said he couldn't make it to the meeting, so we just had a little picnic (me with my Key Foods selection and they with their pizza.) I was being a real pig with my hummus and pardoned myself for stuffing my face, and one of the guys made fun of me. He said, "Pardon me, I'm gorging myself on baby greens." It made me feel like a self-conscious dopey model and I almost ran into the bathroom to stick my finger down my throat just to prove a point. (That point is, I'm too sensitive.)

We looked at the space and chit chatted about some details, I hung a poster up in the window which my boyfriend made for me, and then I left and rode over to the library, where I am now. (I don't have a computer, so I have to go to the library to do any computer stuff. Does anyone have a half-decent laptop they'd like to sell to me or donate for a tax-break? Isn't that what rich people do a lot? Help...) There was an old man sitting at the terminal I was signed up for. He was wearing three pairs of glasses on top of eachother. It's moments like that where I really love NYC. I told him I was signed up for that computer. He told me it was the wrong computer and I'd made a mistake. I double checked and saw that tri-focals was bullshitting me. Old people in NY are so bad ass. I told him that he was mistaken and he looked at me so sadly through his triple specs I almost just let him have it, but I really needed to update my blog! So I told him to move his old superblind ass and let me have the terminal. (I said that in my head.)

My friend sent me an e-mail that said that I had an interview on today. I read it. I thought it made me sound like a normal person. I don't know how that makes me feel.

Friday, July 23, 2004

This is interesting - today, for the third time this year, I've received an e-mail from another Jessica Delfino somewhere out there. This one lives in California, and came across me trying to find members of her family that have mafia ties. I wish I could have been the mafia Delfino she was looking for. It's true, I am Italian, but I'm not Italian in the Sopranos type of way, where I have a fat husband who cheats on me or anything like that. I'm more the white, would-be sophisticate (if only I weren't so poor) kind of Italian. You know, the one who might ride a yellow motor scooter with a basket full of flowers while wearing a skirt and expensive shoes. Or something.
Below are two of the three, I couldn't find the third. I know I saved it, but maybe it ran away, like I did when I was 15. A Delfino trait, perhaps?
Hello, Jessica, my name is Jessica Delfino too, I livein Lima, PerĂº in South America (Im speak spanish), its surprise to my, know I not the only with this name, I study Psycology and my face is similar than you, white with brown dark hair. My english is terrible I know, but I what to write you because I want to now something of you, my family is Italy, they came of San Remo and yours?, if you want to now something of me you can write me. My Country is so beatiful, with and ancient and big history, Im in Ny two oportunities four tourist, it so interesting, to much culture and art, you are andartist, Im 29 years old, this is my second carrera(university study) Im a administration too. Well, its time to say good bye, I hope you like my letter, its difficult believe their a few of JessicaDelfino, because in my country Im the only, bye. write me soon and excuse me my poor english.  
Hi, My name is Jessica Delfino and I live in California and I was trying to do some research on my old family that was in the Mafia (for the hell of it) and your name popped up and I was wondering if Jessica Delfino is your actual name. I'm sorry if this may seem stupid but I thought it was kind of cool that someone has the exact same name as I do and vise versa. I am not some weirdo or a stalker or trying to screw with you, and if for some reason you don't believe me I can copy my drivers license for proof to send via e-mail. Oh and how old are you by the way? I am turning 20 in a couple of months. If you read this far then thank you for taking the time to read my e-mail and I hope to hear back from you.~Jesse

It's really weird that you're writing to me, because you're the third person this year to tell me that your name is Jessica Delfino and that you were doing research on your name for whatever reason and happened to come across me. I don't think you are joking, I just think it's really strange that everyone decided this is the year to start looking for other Jessica Delfinos!
I was looking for my dad awhile back who lives in LA, also a Delfino, and I couldn't find him. But then he called me a few weeks ago and told me that he was looking for me. It must be Delfino hunting season or something. I don't think I have any family in the mafia (I wish though, because there are several people I'd like to 'disappear' if you know what I mean, and if you don't know what I mean, then what I mean is, I'd like to pay someone to shoot them or have a family member who could probably get away with it shoot them) but I hear I am related to the Rizzo's of Philadelphia, aka Frank Rizzo, a past mayor of Philadelphia, who has been rumored to be pretty tough. When my car got impounded while I was at school in Philadelphia, I called the mayor's office and told them I thought we were related, and asked them if they could call the impound office and get my car released. They did. Very interesting, indeed, Jessica Delfino.
So, what do you do in California? What part do you live in? How old are you? I'm 28. I live in NYC and am an aspiring stand-up comedian and performer. I perform several nights a week in the lively downtown art scene and have a website which is Technically, it's a blog, but when I tell people that I have a blog, they get mad and punch me, so I've just been saying website lately.
Gee, thanks for e-mailing me. Did you find other Jessica Delfino's as well? Maybe we should start a Jessica Delfino club. There are now officially four of us that I know of - one lives in Spain and the other lives somewhere in South America - Argentina, I believe. I grew up in Maine and have been in NYC now for about three years.
Please do keep in touch and let me know what you think about starting a Jessica Delfino club.
Take care,
Jessica Delfino
End Note: If you are named Jessica Delfino and would like to be in the Jessica Delfino club, please e-mail me at Also, I've tried to set up email accounts before and I couldn't use different variations of Jessica Delfino. It always irritated me and left me thinking, are there other Jessica Delfino's out there? It's a fairly unusual combination of names, I'd think. But now I actually know who took the email account name

Thursday, July 22, 2004


Hello, world. I'm in Long Island (yes, the place where the five guys got run over while trying to picket! And, yes, the place where lots of other notable crimes have happened lately! This is where all the ex-cons go to retire.) It's sunny out here, and I'm visiting friends and I've been swimming and doing some work also, and trying to ward off skin cancer, but it knows where I live. I use SPF religiously, and I don't even believe in god. I'm having a nice time out here, but I'll be getting on the 2:30 pm train headed back to NYC because I'm going to be attending the Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players Revue at SOUTHPAW tonight. I thought originally it was at North Six, but I've been told OTHERWISE. On the bill this evening will be a ton of wonderful guests and hosts and the Trachtenburg Family will cook up some delicious tasties for us all to eat as they do at every show (that Tina Trachtenburg sure can cook!) and in wonderful addition, HAUNTED PUSSY will be performing, my new favorite metal band.

I wish I knew who else was on the bill, but I do know that the Trach's always set up a solid show, and it will be GOOD, no matter you want it to be or not.

Does anyone like to go camping? I was thinking about going camping soon. Who wants to go? I'm going to Vermont in a few weeks to perform and attend a hippie commune fun time good day festival, I don't know what it's called, but it should be so fun. I love swimming in water that is fresh enough to drink. (You know why it's fresh enough to drink? Because leaches eat all the shit out of it!) Unfortunately, the trade off is that you might get a leach stuck to you. I hate leaches. I think they are so gross. Spiders and leaches. No fucking thank you. I hope that someday there is a war between the spiders and the leaches and the spiders win and then the spiders are so happy with their achievement that they crawl off into the deepest recesses of the world and I never see any of them ever again.

I was cleaning a basement yesterday and lots of spiders live there. Spiders are not my friends. I attribute my irrational fear of spiders to a game I used to have when I was just a chile, a game where you'd have to pick up or touch these fake, big, ugly plastic spiders with this pair of tweezers or something and they'd jump and make this buzzing noise that would just shake the bejeezus out of me. Thanks a fucking lot, Mr. fucking Milton and Mr. fuck ass Bradley. Fuck you fags. I'm glad you're dead. Thanks for ruining my life and making me hate spiders.

I wish I could update my blog every day like I used to when life was good and easy. I don't have a computer anymore. My laptop died when the black out happened last year and I've been computerless ever since. If anyone knows anyone who can fix monitors on laptops, please email me at Tell them I'd be happy to pay a lot of money, but payment will be in the form of currency I choose, probably either one I make up or one that consists of things I have in excess - bottles of discount shampoo that I found on the clearance rack at Duane Reade and those white ankle socks.

Bye, world.

Friday, July 16, 2004

HAUNTED PUSSY gets a mention on
This is cool - I played at CBGB's a few days ago with HAUNTED PUSSY, an unheard of metal band, and now they're making some noise about town. Gawker gave them an award for "BEST PRESS RELEASE".
HAUNTED PUSSY is a fucked up histrionic horror-metal band, complete with theatrics, screaming, sass, sassafrass, and lots of hotness and sexual under and overtones. I think they are going to do well in the horror circuit. There is a horror circuit, yes? It's two chics screaming (they're like the narrators, but they also morph into and out of the characters in the story) and 0ne guy on guitar and one guy on drums. They've been called Black Sabbath meets Led Zeppelin meets Heart, and Tina Trachtenburg says they remind her of Yoko Ono. They have a show coming up at 180 Orchard, Thurs July 29th at 7 PM sharp.
If you want to see what all the hubbub is about, they're playing a set every half hour for groups of twenty people at a time. The show is $2. Way to stick it to capitalism, guys!
THE HAUNTED PUSSY is also a horror porn which stars Annie Sprinkle, among others, but I think the name is simply coincidence.
See the gawker article and read the story of HAUNTED PUSSY HERE.

Monday, July 12, 2004

at CBGB's TUESDAY, JULY 13th @ 9 PM

SO, tomorrow night at CBGH's, I'm having a show. I'm going to do a 20 minute set, and then I am going to be joined onstage by HAUNTED PUSSY, I think the one and only horror-opera metal band based on a fictional rape scenario that uses kickin' beats, rockin' metal 'tar and sexy theatrics to paint the art of THE STORY OF HAUNTED PUSSY on the stage before your very eyes.

It's probably going to be pretty good, and also fun. So, please do mark your calendars and put it into your palm pilots, update your blog schedules, post it onto a note which you can then hang on the fridge, thumb tack it up on your wall, write it on your wrist or palm, have a close friend call you and remind you and whatever other way you have honed for remembering important events.

What else do I have to say? Nothing, really. Life is okay but kind of shitty at the same time. I feel like I'm writing in my journal right now. I think I basically am, though, aren't I? Whoever reads this thing regularly has a pretty good idea of what my life is like. I didn't necessarily mean for that to happen, I guess I just have a sort of big mouth when I'm hiding behind a computer monitor.


I am scared of you because you are a different color than me

The End

So, what's going on, you guys? I'm sitting in front of this computer right now with a bit of a chip on my shoulder, I admit it. For some reason, sitting in front of the computer really makes it come out. It gets heavier or something? I am very into psychology. I think it's the answer to the world's problems. Everyone should be psychoanalyzed at birth and then again every year until they die. And if they are deemed crazy, they should be burned alive.

Did you guys know that the chinese way to write the word "CHAOS" consists of two symbols: The first symbol means DANGER, and the second symbol means OPPORTUNITY. I think that I might have written that on my blog before, but I like it. Some people repeat quotes, I repeat trivia I heard while surfing the radio channels.

Does anyone listen to the radio anymore? What stations are good? I listen to WFMU sometimes, is that a station? I think those are the right call letters. I also listen to 1010 Wins in the morning if I spend the night at my boyfriend's house, becuase that's what he listens to. The news is always so bad. It kind of sucks to wake up first thing in the morning hearing about how shitty the world is. It's like, I just had this blissful nine hours of time where I forgot that I'm going to die and then I wake up and it's the first thing I'm reminded of. I hate dying stuff. I think it was yesterday, maybe, I heard that 16 people were killed in NYC over the weekend. I don't want to have to think about that, I don't want it to be an option. I would rather make art about my pussy. Life's too short not to make art about your pussy. That's the bottom line.

Hey, Patrick Borelli - if you read this or if someone who knows Patrick Borelli reads this and has his phone number, will they please tell him I want to talk to him? Because I was thinking about maybe joining his street hockey team, I saw him the other day all dressed up in his knee pads with a hockey stick and well, we got to talking, and I mentioned that I used to play field hockey and well, and he invited me to come and talk to his teammates about joining up. But I couldn't cause I was on my way to a show. Now I don't know how to get in touch with him, so please someone pass the word along if you can. And thanks.

And Bye.

Thursday, July 8, 2004


For those who like their notices short, come see CAUSTIC tonight at Baggot Inn at 82 W. 3rd St. between Thompson and Sullivan. It's awesome! I'll be in the show debating NYC in the summertime - good or bad? I'm putting my mouth and money on bad. It's a free show with one dollar beers. It's right next to the Boston Comedy Club, and the show is sponsored by L Magazine and that shitty low carb beer. (Everything's low carb now! I want that same shitty beer taste but with all the carbs.) 8:00 PM TONIGHT, July 8th, 2004. You know you want it.

K. Bye.

For those who like their notices short, come see CAUSTIC tonight at Baggot Inn at 82 W. 3rd St. between Thompson and Sullivan. It's awesome! I'll be in the show debating NYC in the summertime - good or bad? I'm putting my mouth and money on bad. It's a free show with one dollar beers. It's right next to the Boston Comedy Club, and the show is sponsored by L Magazine and that shitty low carb beer. (Everything's low carb now! I want that same shitty beer taste but with all the carbs.)

K. Bye.

Wednesday, July 7, 2004


Math equation: My boyfriend is spending the night out on Long Island with Vox and Mariya. He has told me before that he has a crush on Mariya, that she has perfect breasts and that he enjoys asking girls if he can look at their breasts. (Am I dating a svelter, brunette Big Mike?) If my boyfriend is "A" and Mariya is "B", how long will it take him to ask her to show him her breasts?

QUESTION: What do you all think? Would it be considered rude for a boyfriend to ASK a girl (not his girlfriend) if he can see her breasts? Is it okay for her to show them to him? Would that be considered an act of intimacy?

Complicated theory: Love is a bitter, back-breaking, neck-strangling bitch. I hate myself and everyone who knows me. How do these two items correlate?

True Story:
I rode the subway for the first time in a long time tonight. It sparked grand thoughts of suicide - which I haven't entertained in awhile. (By awhile I mean a few days?) In this scenario, I passed out onto the train tracks. In my fantasy, people are trying to help me up off the tracks as the train is coming, but I'm wriggling away, screaming, "Let me go, assholes!" And I fight them so much, they can't pull me up and I fall back down into the tracks, just as the train arrives. The train's grill meets my face and we kiss and kiss and kiss, into forever and ever.

It was god damn hot down there. I actually really did feel a little faint. I sat down on the ground, very close to the edge of the tracks and dangled my feet out over the little rat's heads. "Hey little rats," I called out to them. They didn't respond or even look up at me. Rude. Typical of "New York City" rhodents, I guess. I looked around the platform at the ugly guys everywhere. This city is so full of hot chicks and tons and tons of ugly, ugly men. Why? It's just no fair.

Abstract Non-sequitor: At the show I did at UCB a few months back, a friend came into the green room and looked me square in the eye. She said, "This whole self-depreciating thing isn't working for you. Get a new schtick." Weird - schtick and ticking time-bomb kind of rhyme.

Family Tie-In: THIS IS WEIRD - My FATHER, THE Mr. Mark Delfino, called me the other day out of the clear blue sky for the first time in about three years. He got evicted from his apartment the SAME MONTH that I DID! Is eviction hereditary? Recessive? Assigned? My father is a very interesting and insane cat - bi-polar and all that shit, manic, funny, crafty, intense. His eyes are two blue pools. He hates the world a whole bunch. He made a guitar out of the ATARI symbol. He had put all his stuff into storage and then he got sick and couldn't pay his bill and all his shit got thrown out, including the Atari guitar, which I was supposed to inherit, stapling my mind shut to the idea that something, anything, one good thing might happen to me someday. He's living in Connecticut now and promises to come and visit me. I can't wait. I'm going to bring him to the Bowery Poetry Club on Show N Tell night and he's going to do something terrific and weird, like crap on the floor and see the future in it or something, but I promise whatever he does, it'll be art, alright.

But of all the things that happened to me today, THIS is beyond all, the most exciting thing that happened all day -

Strange encounter: ED FINKERTON HUMPERDINK - came clean to me. He wrote me a delightful little e-mail telling me who he was, finally, finally, FINALLY! I was QUITE surprised to see it was who it was - It was a guy who I'd met on Craigslist a few months ago when I was looking for a roommate. He moved to NYC recently and has been reading and posting really funny, smart, provocative comments to my blog, but not actually talking or communicating with me in any other way. It's almost crazy, but crazy in the way that is typical of the people I generally enjoy. For months I've been trying to get him to tell me who he is and he just kept skirting the issue. But tonight we actually MET. We went together to see my friend Dan Fishback and others perform at Dixon Place. (Dan was terrific - funny and precious as always) And ya know how sometimes you talk to someone on the phone and you make plans to meet and you are hoping that the person is at least fun, and at best hot and smart, but then they never, ever are? WELL, THIS IS THE WEIRDEST PART: It turns out he was ALL that stuff! He is totally my type - tall, slim, cute-y cute cute, SMART, funny, all around nice guy. A psychology major???!!! Can anyone say YES! YES! YES!??? But he's really too good. He's a southern boy with an accent and EVERYTHING. (He even said he wants to get married someday.)(Sigh, sigh, sigh.)OK, enough of that, Delfino! Anyway, we had a really nice time. We watched the show at Dixon Place and then went and caught Stefon at Bowery Poetry Club (he was awesome) and then finished off the evening with a slice of pizza and an insightful, sarcastic heart to heart chit chat about, ya know, just some stuff.

The weirdest part of it all was that I kept wanting to tell him things and I'd start to say it and then he'd say, "Yeah, I read about that on your blog." It must've happened at least 8 times. He also kept throwing out these little references to me, about ME! Maybe I shouldn't be so balls out open about every aspect of my life. Nah...FUCK THAT. You guys can have it all. The BEST part was that I was feeling really upset about my bf spending the night in Long Island and ED FINKLETON HUMPERDINK really cheered me up. He's alright!

OF COURSE I ran into Nichelle on the walk to the pizza joint. I can't shit on a cupcake without running into that chick. Believe me, I've tried. Three times.

Good night, Ed Finkleton Humperdink. Good night, Dr. Apa. Good night, Jesus. Please make one of my wishes come true soon, Jesus or ask your dad, God if he can do it. Thanks.

Tuesday, July 6, 2004


I always imagine that the way I die will be exactly the way it used to be portrayed on Unsolved Mysteries. (Imagine Robert Stack narrating...)

"Jessica went for a jog around 9:30 am that fateful Tuesday morning. She was never seen alive...again!" (Again should be pronounced [after a long, pretentious pause] uh-GAIN!)

I woke up this morning bright and early to go hand out flyers in front of Dr. Rosenthal's office. I decided to ride up the East River, along FDR Drive, thinking, the West Side Highway bike lanes are so nice, the East Side must be just as lovely. At first, it was very nice. I was making really good time flying up the pathway aside the river, smelling that fresh, salty, gasoline and oil tinged sea air, the new sun shining sweetly on my face. There was a perfect breeze, and I was going to be arriving way early to 30 E. 76th St.

A few times along the way, the path would be blocked by a wall, or a pile of dirt or asphalt, but I'd just find my way around it and keep going. Eventually, I came upon a sign that said, "No Pedestrians" but I thought pedestrians meant people walking on foot. I kept riding a few more feet and all of a sudden realized I was actually riding ON FDR Drive.

Lexuses and Maximas flew by me going upwards of 70 or 80 miles per hour. I cautiously, nervously, slowly pedaled on, wondering, "Fuck?" and "Shit!" and "How am I going to not get killed right now?" The pathway I was on was a three-foot wide ledge alongside a white three-foot high wall, with just inches of air between me and all the cars that were whizzing by. My bike tires clung to the tiny space for dear life and I clung to my bike. I started visualizing horrific and graphic scenes of my death - some dude on his way to work, still drunk from the night before, swerves a little to the right, and WHAMMO! Blood and hair and teeth EVERYWHERE! Bike pieces and bones raining from the sky! There are no fender benders at 70 mph. I looked around for any kind of space or spot for me to pull into and saw one up ahead - across the highway from exit 12, heading towards 61st St. I pulled over into the very small space and waited for a chance to cross over FDR Drive and hopefully ride my bike down exit 12 to safety, but the cars were just flying by way too fast, one after another. There were no pauses. I looked around, waiting for an opportunity to cross, looking for any break in traffic, but there were none. I looked around and saw that back behind me just a few feet was the pedestrian cross-over bridge, but it was really way to treacherous to ride back the way I'd come. The cars were coming too, too fast and there was a corner going back the way I came that cars would fly around, and it looked really too scary to attempt on bike. Looking back at it, I was shocked that I'd made it as far as I had without getting creamed.

There was a sidewalk behind me, behind the three-foot tall white wall, so I pulled my bike up and over it, onto the sidewalk. I'd been riding alongside it, but it would have been too dangerous to stop riding to try to pull my bike over the wall onto the sidewalk with all those cars zipping past, while trying to keep balanced on the three-foot wide ledge, which at that point in the highway had become a two-foot wide ledge. So I had to wait until I got to the little side space out of the direct line of on-coming traffic. I felt relieved to have gotten out from next door to all those cars, but as I walked back towards the pedestrian foot bridge, I noticed I couldn't get to it because in the MIDDLE of the sidewalk was a chain-link fence with a huge closed padlock. On the other side of the fence, a few homeless people had set up a nice little camp and were napping in the sun. There was no way for me to get to the foot bridge, no way for me to ride backwards, no way for me to cross the highway. I was completely stuck.

I used my cellphone to call 311, the city's information line, and asked if there was someone who could come and open the padlock so I could get through. She said no. She told me to call 911. I called 911 and told them I was stuck, and explained the situation. They said it was not a police matter and there was nothing they could do. I called 311 again and asked what I should do? She called 911 and 911 again told us both that it was not a police matter. I got really pissed and said, "If you can rescue a kitten from a tree, you can fucking get me out of here!" They re-confirmed that they couldn't do anything to help. I sat there for a bit, scared and upset, and called Christopher. He told me to ride back the way I'd come. I tried to explain that it was too dangerous, but he said to just do it. I really couldn't do that, so I hung up and looked around for other options. I began to try to flag down every emergency vehicle that passed, thinking maybe one of them could give me a ride or just slow traffic enough for me to cross, but cop car after emergency vehicle just roared past, either noticing and then ignoring my flailing arms or not even noticing me at all.

All of a sudden, there was a miracle break in traffic. After 40 minutes of waiting. I hauled my bike over the wall and ran across the street, just narrowly missing getting hit by a fresh batch of maniacally speeding drivers. Now across the street, I feared riding down the exit ramp, but decided it was my best and really only option. I got on my bike and started furiously pedaling down the ramp. About halfway down, I saw that I was coming into a construction site. The sign holder lady started freaking out on me. She said, "What are you doing? You can't ride your bike through a construction site! You can't ride your bike on the highway!" I said, "I know! I didn't want to ride on the highway! I got stuck!" I flew by her and finally reached York Ave., away from the scariness of the highway. I was just sighing a huge sigh of relief and thinking how lucky I'd been to not get squished and cursing the cops for insisting there was nothing they could do.

Nothing they could do? Well, I have some ideas. For starters, how about a sign at the end of the pathway that says, "DO NOT RIDE YOUR BIKE! HIGHWAY AHEAD! NO SHOULDER!" Or how about not locking the fucking sidewalk with a chain-link fence so that in the event that someone accidentally does ride onto the highway, they can get back to the foot bridge? STUPID!!!

Just as I was starting to relax a little, a cop car pulled up along side of me. The cop yelled, "HEY!" to me and demanded my ID. I tried to explain to him what had happened and asked where the fuck was he when I needed help? He said that he was going to write me a summons for riding my bike on the highway. I started freaking out at that point, crying and screaming at him. "I was stuck on the highway!" I yelled. "Where were you when I needed someone to come and rescue me?" He said he'd responded to my 911 call. I told him that they said it wasn't a police matter. He said to contest it in court if I wanted to. I said, "If I was your daughter, wouldn't you want someone to help me?" That softened him up a bit, but not enough. He told me it's against the law to ride on the highway, and that a summons would teach me in the future to not ride on the highway. I explained that riding my bike on the regular streets of Manhattan is treacherous enough. I said he should go write some tickets for people speeding and not using signals. He said that he writes multiple speeding tickets every day. I said, "Well, it's good that someone is doing their job." He got really pissed when I said that and actually said, "Don't go there." (He was a black cop. It was just like out of a Lethal Weapon movie!) I explained that I almost get run over 7-10 times a day just riding around the city, and that I wouldn't WANT to ride on the highway. I explained that there was no sign. He said that there were two. I told him that the sidewalk was locked. He said that was to keep people from riding onto the highway. "What about getting back?" I asked. He said, "Don't ride on the highway." I explained how poor I am and that the ticket was not only wrong, but that I wouldn't and couldn't pay it. He said, "Contest it in court." After bickering for about ten minutes and me crying, he told me to stop crying because I was too old to cry and gave me my summons. I rode away on my bike PISSED.

I guess the moral of this story, is maybe I should stop enjoying riding my bike on the highway so much, but it's just too fun. The mix of the thrill of almost being smashed by a zooming metal monster and the sweet, sweet smell of gassy river water is just too intoxicating to resist.

Monday, July 5, 2004


I participated on the 4th in a spectacle which took place in Washington Square Park at noon. It was called, "BUSH!" and was the brainchild of internationally-known and revered prankster, Joey Scaggs. I was a cheerleader, along with tons of other lovely, charming, local artist broads, including Reverend Jen, Diane O'Debra, Margaret Dodge, Tia, Ann Carr and others. The Trachtenburg's own little angel face Rachel Trachtenburg played the drums, and Touching You and others played Saudi vote buyers. Along with those already mentioned, there was also a full chorus, a few other musicians, Dick Cheney, Colin Powell, secret service men, and a ton of other miscellaneous characters. Joey himself played Uncle Sam. He rode a three-wheeled bicycle (I guess technically, they're called 'tri-cycles') into Washington Square Park behind all of us who were prancing through the park in a parade-like procession, yelling out cheers and singing American pride songs like "Grand Old Flag" and others. Attached to Joey's tri-cycle was an outhouse with Bush sitting on the shitter, wiping his ass with money. The Saudi vote buyers stood beside Uncle Sam and handed out fake money to those who were bold enough to walk up and accept it. The money said something along the lines of, Let's get this douche out of office.

It was a crazy good time, albeit it was a hundred degrees out and I was doing a lot of jumping and yelling, as cheerleaders are wont to do. (Did I spell wont right?) We got a lot of attention (How can a parade not get attention?) Tons of people were gathered around singing with us, asking questions, looking confused or bored or acceptant, or other. One guy came running into the parade as we were marching into the park and screamed, "No! Stop! What are you doing?" Joey had arranged it as a faux-pro rally, so it 'almost' seemed as if we were in support of the Bush campaign, except that if you looked and listened closely, you'd see we were absolutely NOT. For example, one of our cheers was, "Gimme A B! U! S! H! What's that spell? BULL!" Etc.

It was lots of fun and I think I got skin cancer. Read more about it here:

BUSH and the BUSHETTES bring down the house

Afterwards, the Collective Unconscious was holding their annual Monster Parade, where they basically dress up in strange costumes and waltz down the promenade instigating lookers-on.
I walked over and checked it out briefly, but not much was going on yet, they were still setting up. But Big Mike was there trying to take photos of my breasts and ass, 'cause that's his thing. As I was leaving, he begged, as he is not above doing that. He pleaded with me one last time. "Please???" I walked past him cooly and even maybe coldly, saying, "No, Big Mike." He let his camera fall to his side, his red, creepy face sagging into a frown. Once I thought I was safely past him and out of the reach of his itchy trigger finger, I flipped up the back of my skirt to tease him, (I was wearing a bathing suit underneath) and that fat asshole, that son of a whore, his chubby little trigger finger snapped up a polaroid of my bikini-bottomed butt so fast, I was in shock. I heard the familiar polaroid processing sounds as I lowered my skirt back down and wondered, did he get me? That quick bastard? I turned around and he was one huge smile. He showed me the photo, and I don't know how he did it, but he got a perfect photo of my ass, without even looking or aiming his camera, as it hung down by his side. The photo is even evenly framed. I tried to take it away, but he wouldn't let me. It's the pride of his scrapbook as I have never let him take any naked photos of me as long as I've known him. I think he's got the tits of almost every art star out there. Now he's got my ass. Career, look out. Here I come.

In the evening I went to some Greene Dragon party on the other side of the Williamsburg bridge. I drank two 40s of Budweiser and watched the fireworks. I fell asleep on the roof of the party at some point during the Hungry March Band's set. Beer always wins in a nap-off with my brain.


I'd like to take a moment to give some credit to the regular posters of my comments boards. The creativity of your comments, while not always educational or informative, is generally of a high, admirable level. Keep up the good work, friends!

Also, who the hell are you Ed Humperfinkel or whatever your name is? And why won't you come clean? I've asked who you are now about three times. Are you afraid of me?

Thursday, July 1, 2004


So, the reading was pretty fun. Everyone had roughly four minutes to wow the crowd with their literary genii (I insist that will be a word someday) and the collective group of readists were quite talented. I especially liked Elizabeth Spiegs reading.

I wrote something new just for the reading which is always chancey, you never know if something untested is going to work or not. But, I have had luck with the format I used, which I've featured before on my blog. I wrote two new "JOB SEARCH SELF SABOTAGES" where I look for jobs on Craigslist, because I know I need a job, but I don't want a job, so I write heinous letters to the employers assuring I will definitely not get hired.

Here are my two new JOB SEARCH SELF SABOTAGES.

Luxury Bodywork studio seeking beautiful ladies 21-30 established affluent clientle*** great management female owned perfect for students models and actresses
Great money $$$$$$$$ for interview call 646-733-6720 and ask for Cheryl

Please no phone calls about this job
Compensation 70-100 per hour

Dear Cheryl

My name is Ann. I am a lesbian and I really want this job. Well, I'm actually bi, but I do women only also. I think it would be so fun to give "massages" all day. I'm totally into married men. I bet they'd totally want me. But I'm a lesbian. But I might do a guy if I could find one who's dick didn't smell like grated parmesan cheese. I'm sorry! That's just what all men's dicks smell like to me.

Anyway, I think I'd be really good for this position. I'm a student - of sorts, I'm a student of life. I'm a model - a model citizen, that is, and I once acted in a short film about a girl who loses her faith in god when her cousin dies in a car crash, but then finds her faith again through a love affair with an older female hotel maintenance worker.

So, I was wondering - this is a prostitute job, right? That's the impression I got. If it isn't, I was wondering if you have any positions available that are? I'm flexible.



Busy event planner needs help in the studio. Duties include: keeping inventory, flower care and arrangements, packing and moving, errands, general upkeep and cleaning of space. Flexible hours, fun company, great opportunity. Looking for a self-starter with amazing organizational skills and a sunny disposition. Flower knowledge a plus!

$11 an hour
Part time job.

Dear Busy -

My name is Mary Lewis. I'm very interested in the position of helper of your event planning studio. I am very good at keeping inventory of things. I know about flower care, (like you water them, right?) And I can pack things and move them (I've got both arms! Ha ha!) I know how to do errands like go to the post office or buy pencils or nail polish remover or get a secret message from a person you might be having an affair with. I'll be honest, I don't love to clean, but I know how to do it. If you have a sponge and a bottle of some stuff that sprays, then I guess we're in business.

I'd also like to tell you, I'M a self starter with amazing organization skills and a sunny disposition. What is so interesting to me about this position is that you are practically saying, HEY MARY LEWIS! Will you come and work for me? Because I have every single skill you are seeking!

Also, I don't mean to make you feel bad or uncomfortable, but if you don't hire me for this job, I will become homeless and get thrown out on the streets. I'm about to get evicted from my apartment and I'm pregnant. And I have AIDS. I'm trying to save up enough money to leave the state because my boyfriend keeps trying to murder me.

Thank you very much for your time and consideration for this position.

Yours Truly,
Mary Lewis

***The audience seemed to enjoy my reading in all, but I noticed as I read the end of this letter aloud (which seemed so funny to me as I was writing it) the audience's dense laughter quickly turned to awws and I believe a few people even sharply inhaled air. I saved it though, with quick thinking and a "herpes on my vagina" joke. Here's three cheers to professionalism!***


I was there all day again today. Dr. Rosenthal's wife walked by and stopped dead in her tracks. "What did you say?" she said. "I am handing out literature about Dr. Rosenthal," I said. "Are you a patient of his?" She stared stunned behind her Gucci sunglasses and then blurted out, "He's my husband! This is not true!" With that, she stormed off, turning back every few feet to make sure I wasn't a figment of her imagination.

I felt kind of badly about that, his wife having to walk by and see us on the street. I can't wait until this job is over. David and Dr. Rosenthal are supposedly in negotiations now to settle this thing, but until then, I'm on the sidewalk handing out flyers. At the very least, the weather has been nice and Dr. Apa is hot.

I looked around nervously for Vincent this morning but he never showed up. Maybe he had a leg breaking appointment in Jersey or something.


There are some new photos in my pictures link of HAUNTED PUSSY from the roof patio concert party. They were taken by the Bunnybrains and emailed to me. If anyone else has pics of Haunted Pussy or the party, please send them to me at And, here's some fun news: HAUNTED PUSSY is going to be playing at CBGB's at 8 PM on Tuesday, July 13th. That should be fun, perverse and rockin'.